The Language of Blood
by Kokura
Summary: Bakura is the one who speaks the Language of Blood. His drinking of it is necessary to the survival of the people, although it sacrifices one to his thirst each year. What will he do when the one person he would never willingly harm is chosen?


The Language of Blood-

A/N: Neither Yuugiou nor the original story "The Language of Blood" belong to me. Bruce Coville owns the plotline. I merely thought the storyline would make a nice tendershipping fic. Most of the text is the same, but I obviously changed most of character names as well as added or deleted some things here and there.

Warnings: Angst. Fantasy. Gratuitous use of the letter "h" in names. I think you get the rest.

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I was born outside the Glorious City, but my parents moved inside its walls before I was a year old. My mother was the ambitious one, always looking for something bigger and better. My father was a scribe. From what the elders later told me, the village missed him greatly when he came here. There, he had been the only scribe, but here, he was only one among many. But as I said, my mother was ambitious.  
I grew up running through the streets of the Glorious City. The neighbors all knew me and liked me. I was the fastest boy in the city and always ran as fast as I could. But soon I found that you cannot run forever. Sooner or later, the world catches up with you.

For me, it happened shortly after I turned seven. It was at the First Night Ceremony. Oh, how excited I was to be going. The food, the singing, the fireworks- but especially the food. It never occured to me that my world would shift beneath me, that my life would change...  
Still, it is sweet to remember, even now-sweet and terrible to think of how we put on our robes of yellow and crimson and made our way through the streets with all the others. My family went with our neighbors. Their son, Ryou, was my best friend, and he held my hand as we wound through the streets, laughing gaily together at the bloody clowns along the way.

We were that innocent.

I still remember standing with the crowd at the foot of the temple, looking up at each level. The first seemed so much higher to me then-twice a man's height, it was nearly four times my size. How I loved to see the guards standing on it all in a row, their weapons at the ready. Then, ten feet behind it and twelve feet higher, the second level stood with the costumed maidens in their scarlet robes and feathers.Then the third level with the stern priests, the fourth with the stoic watchers, the fifth where the fearsome Pyong Myar stood waiting. I feared him with that delicious fear of childhood that made me want to hide when his name was mentioned at the same time that I wanted, no, _hungered_, to hear more about him. However, this was the first time I had ever seen him. I shivered happily at the sight, since I was clinging to my mother's skirts and therefore believed myself to be safe. How wrong I was.

The Pyong Myar stood at the top of the temple, surrounded by a ring of fire and holding two huge knives above his head as if he planned to carve a hole in the sky. The trumpets blared, the people shouted, and, to my utter horror, the Pyong Myar began to walk down the great line of steps that runs up the center of the temple.

What was he doing?

A silence fell over the crowd. The watchers, the priests, the maidens, and the guards all became motionless while the Pyong Myar coninued his slow progress down the steps, ritually crossing and uncrossing his knives as he walked. Ryou whimpered next to me, and recieved a sharp rap on the head from his father's knuckles for the transgression.

The Pyong Myar was the tallest man I had ever seen, an effect that was heightened by his fantastic headgear. His crimson robes flowed behind him, fluttering with his long, graceful movements. Though he was well over one hundred and seventy-five years of age, the muscles that shifted beneath the leather straps of his chest harness were those of a young man no older than twenty.

"What is he doing?" I whispered to my mother. "Why is he coming down here?" This earned me the same treatment from my mother that Ryou's transgression had earned from his father.

The guards dropped to one knee when the Pyong Myar reached their level. My own knees started to buckle, and I must have actually begun to drop, for my mother grabbed my shoulder. The crowd was stiff and silent, and young as I was, I could both see and feel the tension among them. As the Pyong Myar began the descent from the first level of the temple to the ground, a murmur of astonishment rose, then quickly died. The only sound in the entire city was the metallic hiss of the Pyong Myar's knives as the blades slid back and forth, back and forth, across each other's surface.

We were standing some fifteen feet from the front of the crows. The Pyong Myar placed his knives together, upright, then spread them apart with faint sound that made it seem like they had cut through the air itself. At this gesture, the crowd seperated as smoothly as if some invisible blade had thrust among us, slicing us into two halves. We jostled back in eerie silence, leaving a path about five feet wide through which the Pyong Myar could pass. I stared across that space at Ryou, who stood shivering next to his father and clung to his mother's dress.

The Pyong Myar began to walk down the aisle he had created, glancing from side to side. To my horror, I realized that his eyes were a disconcerting purple, and glowing. I clung still closer to my mother as he approached, my fear so great I could hardly breathe. Once he had passed us by, I nearly collapsed with relief, but he had not gone more than eight paces past us when he abruptly turned and walked back to where we stood.

He stopped directly in front of me. I tried to back away, but there was no hole in the solid wall of flesh behind me, no nook or cranny into which I could escape. He stared down at me. Awe-stricken, I gazed up at him. He extended the knives, placing one on either side of my neck. "You!" he said. Then he drew the knives forward smoothly, slicing two horizontal lines across my cheek first, then adding a vertical line that cut across them seconds later.

My mother shouted in triumph, while my father wept.

The Pyong Myar reached down and took my hand. His grip was utterly unlike anything I had ever felt before, and I did not even know the word for it until my third year in the temple when I was given some ice from the very top of a mountain. His grip was _cold._

My mother pushed me forward. The crowd was silent, save for Ryou, who whispered, "Good-bye Behkhara!" as the Pyong Myar led me away from my parents and my childhood, up the stairs of the temple.

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I was hard put to keep up with the Pyong Myar, for the steps were too large for my childish legs. It was a terrifying clim. With no warning, I had been pulled from the crowd by this fearsome stranger and taken from my family, who I was quite sure I would never see again. Something dark and mysterious had reached out and chosen me to be a part of it; something that was only whispered about in the city that I wasn't sure I liked. Yet such was the awe in which we held the temple ceremonies, and the power that emanated from the Pyong Myar, that I did not cry out, did not resist, only did as I was expected. I tried to do this with some dignity, but it was not easy when I could barely negotiate the steps, and I was crying out inside my mind with loss and terror, as well as the pain of the bleeding cuts on my jaw.

The guards, already on their knees, bowed their heads to the ground as we crossed the broad terrace on which they stood. Despite my terror, part of me wondered if this display of respect was for the Pyong Myar, or for me. For, little as I knew what was in store for me, I knew that children chosen in the same fashion as I was were considered rare and precious. As we mounted the next level of steps, I turned to glance behind me. I could still see my parents in the crowd below. A fierce tug from the Pyong Myar brought me face forward again. The maidens bowed in the same way the guards had, though I noticed that at least one of them secretly glancing up to get a better look at me. The priests, too, touched their heads to the ground as we passed. Only the blue-robed watchers did not move, but stared intently, as if burning my image into their brains. At the top level of the temple, the level where the Pyong Myar had stood alone only moments before, he turned me to face the mob below. Carefully, almost tenderly, he set the huge knives on a stone table. Then, in an almost fatherly gesture, he put his hands around my waist, which was by then wet with my own blood, and lifted me above his head.

The crowd roared its appoval.

Then the Pyong Myar turned and carried me through a dark door.

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It is ten strides (_long_ strides, though) from that door to the Pyong Myar's private apartments. When I first entered, I was completely astonished at the luxury of them. I had not known what to expect, but the lavish tapestries, pillows, rugs, fountains, polished woods, and silky curtains were a surprise.

My new master placed me upon a table, and though he did not order me to stay, I knew far better than to attempt to move.

It was a relief when he removed that terrifying headdress and I saw that, beneath it, he was only a man after all. A terrifying, remarkable man, but a man nevertheless, and not a child-devouring demon like the stories my friends and I whispered to one another said.

"Do you know why I have brought you here?" he asked.

I shook my head slowly. I had some vague idea lurking in the back of my head, but no certainty, and therefore there was no voice with which to say so.

He smiled, which did nothing to make his face less frightening. "Carna and Sangua spoke to me. "We have sent the next Speaker," they whispered in my mind. "Go and find him, and train him, so that he may serve the people.' " He paused, and for only an instant- but I will never forget it, for I never saw it again- a tremendous look of weariness passed over his features, and they seemed to sag with age. "It has been too long since a Speaker has appeared," he said. "I have been worried for the people. It is good that you are now here."

I nodded, feeling a little bit better. I wanted to be good.

He looked at me, and I saw again something that I have never seen in him a second time. It was pity, and it terrfied me that the Pyong Myar, for all of his horror and fierceness knew that there was something in store for me that moved him to pity.

"Do you know what the Speaker does?" he asked, not unkindly.

It took me a moment to answer, for my tongue seemed to have been sealed to the roof of my mouth. "He has vision," I said at last. "Visions that guide the people."

"And do you know how he does it?" asked the Pyong Myar.

I shook my head, relieved to be able to answer without words, suddenly wondering why he was interrogating me.

He closed his eyes and sighed. Just once, but very wearily. But he said nothing more on the matter. A moment later two women came to the door, and I sensed that it was with some relief that he gave me into their care. They washed my wounds and smeared them with an ointment that burned like fire. Then they tucked me into a strange but comfortable bed and sang me to sleep with melancholy songs that I had never heard before.

This was my entrance into the Red Temple.

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My life in the temple soon fell into a pattern. The women who had taken me from the Pyong Myar's rooms, Shizukha and Ahnzu, became my guardians, and- more important- my teachers. They began my lessons by teaching me the history of our great city, the stories of our wars, of our victories and defeats, and the tales of our enemies, the terrible enemies that were always waiting, lurking, ready to overwhelm us. They told me stories of those who speak the language of blood, and how their words have ever and again saved us from surprise, helped us avert disaster, led us to salvation.

They told me that I was to be the next Speaker. But never did they tell me what that meant, nor how I was to make this transition. That knowledge was kept from me for the time being, and many a night I lie awake and wonder, wonder if things would have happened differently had I known what was in store.

My only dissatisfaction at the time was that I was kept within the temple walls, a prisoner in a golden cage. I did have other children to play with, though, children of the guards and temple women. One, especially, became a friend. His name was Atemu, and he was Ahnzu's nephew, an arrogant scamp who somehow managed to sneak out of the temple and roam the city on a regular basis. Atemu loved to tell me what was going on outside of our walls, and after a time, I begged him to look in on my family, and on my friend Ryou.

He, in turn, tried to convince me to sneak out with him. The night I agreed to try, we were, of course, caught. Atemu was severely beaten. I was not, and while my escape from punishment was a great relief and certainly not unwelcomed, it also left me feeling extremely guilty that my friend had been punished when I myself had not.

Atemu was far too much the scapegrace to hold this against me, but I noticed that he no longer suggested that I accompany him on his city adventures. It was clear to me that whoever ruled our lives did not care if Atemu entered the city at all, and at the same time, cared a great deal whether I even attempted such a thing.

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The night before my eleventh birthday, Shizukha took me aside and said, "Tomorrow you will be initiated into the next level of the temple. A man will come to take you away. Go bravely, and do not shame your second mothers, Shizukha and Ahnzu." She closed her eyes and drew me tremblingly to her. "It is possible we will not see you again, my little one, my Behkhara," she whispered. The tremor in her voice frightened me just as much as her words, and I threw my arms around her and wept without knowing why.

The next day, the two women dressed me in my finest clothing. The rest of my things were packed in a wooden chest. Late in the afternoon, the chest and my trembling self were set outside the doors of our apartments. Shizukha and Ahnzu each embraced me and told me to be good, wise, and brave. Then they closed the door. I could hear two things. The snick of the metal as they slipped the bolt into place and locked me out, and their cries of lamentation as they mourned my loss.

I stood and waited, trying to be brave. It was not easy.

After a very long time, or at least what seemed like a very long time to me, the Pyong Myar came. I had not seen him since the night he delivered me to Shizukha and Ahnzu. He was naked, save for a black cloth tied around his waist and a red (red, red as blood) cape that flowed down from his massive shoulders.

"Are you ready, Banang?" he asked. His terrible voice was gentle, almost worried.

When I nodded, he reached down and took my hand. "Someone will come along later to get your things," he said. I could not help wondering if he had left out something important from that sentence, like "if you are still alive". Side by side, we walked along the corridor. Because I had a feeling that it might be a long time before I came here again, I stared hard at the imaged carved on the walls, the pictures of gods, heroes, and monsters, trying to burn them permanantly into my mind.

We stopped before an ornate carving of a tree. The Pyong Myar reached out with his free hand and pressed one of the jeweled fruits. To my great surprise, a large section of the wall slid open, revealing another corridor beyond. I had walked past this hidden door hundreds of times without ever knowing it was there.

Reading my thoughts, the Pyong Myar said, "You will learn many secrets before this day is over. This is but the least of them."

The corridor was lighted with oil lamps. Between them, there hung tapestries woven with colorful pictures from the stories I had been taught by Shizukha and Ahnzu.

The Pyong Myar led me to a room that was as large and luxuriously furnished as his own. Yet it felt close and still. It took me a moment to realize that this was because it had no windows breaking the cold, smooth expanse of its walls.

In the center stood a table made of black stone that was mottled with red. The Pyong Myar steered me towards it and told me to lie down upon it.

A moment later, a slender, dark-eyed man entered the room. He was nearly as tall as the Pyong Myar, and, like him, looked young and strong. Except for his eyes, which seemed very, very old.

"This is Behkhara," said the Pyong Myar, gesturing in my direction. "Your successor."

The man smiled and nodded to me. "I have been waiting for you for a very long time," he said. He sounded extraordinarily weary, and a little sad as well. I felt guilty, though I had no idea what I could have possibly done to hurry my arrival along.

As if he had read my mind, the man said, "Do not worry, Behkhara. It is not your fault. The world turns as it will. Sometimes relief comes sooner, and sometimes later. I still have a few years to wait. But knowing that you are here and ready to begin makes my heart so very much lighter."

I nodded, said nothing.

The man turned to the Pyong Myar. "Leave us," he said. "I will do what must be done."

To my eternal astonishment, the Pyong Myar turned and left abruptly. I would not have believed before that moment that anyone could give him an order.

"My name is Sehto," said the man. "I am the one who speaks the language of blood. This is not an easy thing, but it must be done. I do it for the people. It is you who shall do it when I am gone."

I stared at him, eyes wide, but said nothing. I am not sure whether I could have spoken even if I had wanted to.

"To do this, you must be prepared," continued Sehto. "That is why you are here today. What I do to you today, you will do to others later. Almost always you will take from them. Only once in all the years that follow ill you give as I am about to give to you."

His eyes were powerfully hypnotic, his voice soothing. He was moving closer to me. As he spoke, his eyes began to change. Soon they were glowing, deep, red, like coals in a firepit. Then he smiled, and I saw for the first time that he had two sharp fangs that curved down from beneath his upper lip.

I wanted to scream, to run, to hide, but found that I could not, could not move, could not resist.

Naranda bent over me. My heart was pounding so fast that I feared that it would explode. Drawing back his lips, he plunged his fangs into my neck.

A spasm wracked my body. Fire seemed to pour into my veins from his bite.

Then, the world disappeared, and I found myself floating in a strange nothingness. Odd shapes, made of mist and edged with fire, whirled past me. Voiced whispered softly in my ears.

I thought I was dying, but knew that I could not possibly be that lucky. The agony was exquisite.

Then all went black.

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When I awoke, Sehto was sitting nearby. He looked tired, gray, and worn-out. He raised his head, and the eyes that had glowed fire-red when he first approached me now seemed empty, as if the fire had consumed what had been there, and only cold ashes were left.

"You live," he whispered hoarsely.

I nodded.

"I was afraid, for a moment, that you might not." His voice sounded like dried corn husks rustling in the wind.

I wanted to rage at him for what he had done to me. But his weakness was like a poultice, draing out the sting of my anger. Whatever his purpose, his action had clearly cost him as much, possibly more, than it had cost me.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"I will live. I have to, until you are mature yourself. Who else wll speak the language of blood for the people until then, if I do not? Can you stand?"

I tried, and found that I could- found, in fact, that felt surprisingly strong.

"Help me up," Sehto said.

"What is the language of blood?" I asked, as I drew him to his feet.

"It is the language to which you were born, Behkhara," he answered. "It is words of warning, the faintest whispers of prophecy; tomorrow itself singing a song that only the drinkers of blood may hear and repeat, only the Pyong Myar interpret."

I did not understand, nor did he expect me to. At his command, I led him to a pallet. I was covered by a finely woven robe. When he lay upon I noticed, with a shudder of revulsion, the line of dried blood that ran from the side of his mouth. My blood. Looking more closely, I saw that traced of it circled his lips as well. As if aware of what I was looking at, he flicked his tongue at the corners of his mouth self-consciously, trying to clean away the brown flakes.

"Tell me what you have done to me," I said, my voice quavering.

"I have made you a man of the people," he replied. "When I am dead and gone, it is you who will read the secrets written in the language of blood."

I stared at him in disbelief, saying nothing.

"When the time comes for your change, your body will grow in the ways that all young men's bodies do- with this addition. Like me, you will have the bloodteeth." And here he drew back his lips to show that fangs with which he had pierced my neck.

------(Apology to all readers: This is Arin, Koko's editor. I uploaded the wrong document the first time, and just fixed it. Sorry!)------

Naranda became my teacher, and for the next three years I was trained in the ways of the Speaker. This was difficult, for at first I could not stand to be near him, as his very presence brought to mind our first meeting and what he had done to me, but after a time, I grew used to him and even, I suppose, began to love and respect him as a student does his teacher. He taught me a great deal: how the Sources are chosen, why they die after their third contribution; why those who speak the language of blood can never see the sun again; what it is like to live longer than any other man or woman, save for the Pyong Myar.

This and more he taught me, as I will teach my own successor. He prepared me well to take his place, and when in the spring of my sixteenth year he finally died, I felt that I was ready to shoulder all of the Speaker's responsibilities. My own change had come upon me nearly two years earlier, and as my voice had deepened, my shoulders broadened, so too had my bloodteeth developed, just as Naranda promised.

He had prepared me for everything that would occur, except for what I found when I climbed the stairs to meet my first Source.

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The stairs, as you have most likely figured out, are on the outside of the temple. They lead to a small structure on the very top of the building. The walls of this structure are chest high-tall enough to hide what happens within them. It has no roof save the sky, and the moon's light fills the chamber at night. Inside is a stone table, much like the one I am sitting at now.

An eager dread, a mix of excitement and terror, filled my heart and soul as I climbed to the top of the temple. I had been moving toward this movement for all of my life. The night-breeze was cool. I could see the city below me and knew that the people there depended on me, on the knowledge I would bring them. I wanted to be a good Speaker, yet feared the act that would make me one.

Fear turned and soured into dread when I walked through the door and saw my Source waiting for me on the stone table.

It was Ryou, of course. Not mere coincidence, but the will of the Pyong Myar. This act would be my final test and the show of the binding of my will to speak the langauge of blood. He was not bound. There were no guards. He could have walked away, if he had only wanted to, and I began to wish that he did. But he lay there, in the light silken robes of a sacrifice. Lay there, waiting for me.

"It has been a long time since we last spoke, Behkhara," he whispered, as I stared at him in shock and horror. "I have missed you greatly." His eyes were luminous, his hair liquid, and his skin milk-white in the caress of moonlight. He had grown beautiful in the years that we had been parted.

"And I have missed you as well," I said at last. Pitiful words, nowhere near to close to describing the utter turmoil and chaos running through me. I felt as if two snakes were fighting in my stomach, twisting and writhing. I was torn between the fire that was stirring in my blood to feed and my horror at using my long-lost childhood friend as my Source.

"Why do you look at me that way?" he asked, sweetly. "Are you angry?"

"Why are you here?" I replied.

"They chose me. I came. Just the same as you."

"Run away," I said, my voice flat and heavy, my heart filled with shame at the betrayal of the people carried in that simple sentence, but hope at the thought that he would acquiesce and I would not have to do the evil task that lay before me.

"Will you run away with me?"

I shook my head, and he shrugged, as if to ask how I could possibly expect him to do what I would not. So I sat down beside him on the stone table and we talked of old times, of our families, of what had happened in the years since I had entered the temple. Too soon I saw in her eyes that the moon was overhead, but I could wait no longer. I stood turned away, turned back and started to walk away as my mouth ached because of the bloodteeth that grew for the first time, stretching down past my upper lip. He caught my wrist before I could leave, pulled me closer, then closed his eyes, extinguishing the moon, as I bent over him and pierced the smooth flesh of his neck.

His blood pumped into my mouth, hot and fragrant, and the gods reached down to touch me. Despite my reulsion, I drank deep, sucking the blood through the wounds I had made. Then, the Fit of Prophecy came upon me. As Ryou's blood released what is in me, that part that makes me a Speaker began to read the secrets of the blood, the past of our people, which flows in all of our veins and points to our future. Fire crawled along my limbs. Long-dead heroes of years past whispered their messages to me. Images swam before me, not like a dream but like a new reality, sharper and more clear than anything I'd ever seen bore. I was transformed, and my heart saw into the past and the future with eyes that would have shamed a hawk's.

I fell to the floor, writhing and jerking, as the words flowed out of me in a long, continuous stream. The tiniest part of me was aware of the Pyong Myar standing nearby, taking down everything I said.

When finally the fit ran its course, I slept as if I were dead. When I awoke I was in my own room. The Pyong Myar was again nearby, staring at me. He smiled when I opened my eyes, and said, "You did well." The sickness in me made it impossible to answer.

"It is always this way after the first feeding," he said with conviction. "You will feel better tomorrow."

What he did not know was that I suffered not merely the sickness of the First Speaking but a sickness of the heart as well, a terrible feeling of guilt and and fear over what I had done to Ryou.

He showed me what I had spoken, the words of blood that told the future of our people. It would be a good year, but a cloud was growing on the horizon, a darkness yet unclear. Thus was the importance of the second speaking reinforced. Knowing that this danger was coming, we could begin to prepare. In six months I would again speak the lanuage of blood. Perhaps then we would know what the hazy danger was.

Ryou and I were married, of course. He was my first bride. How many I have had since, I do not know. I lost count long ago. A year for each; wed at the first speaking, taken to new heights at the second, and seperated by death at the third. Then six months later, a new bride. I will be glad to lay the mantle down.

Sehto, I suspect, did not find this all so difficult, as I did. In the training he gave me, there was no hint of the pain that I felt in regard to Ryou. Perhaps for him, it was just the way it was. Maybe he had forgotten. Maybe he had never even cared. But I cared. Day and night, I brooded over Ryou's fate.

The second speaking came and went. He was paler than usual and weak for many days afterwards. But the speaking had been important. A war was brewing in the west, enemies gathering in the distance, forces joining against us. This we needed to know; this we would not have known, save for the language of blood.

I went to see Shizukha and Ahnzu. I could not tell them directly what I was thinking, that I could not do this again, not when I knew that it would mean the death of my Source, my friend, my love. They knew what I was thinking anyway, of course. They always did. Without a single word, they let me know that my thoughts, my doubts, were shameful.

Finally I spoke to Ryou. "We should run away," I said.

"Silly Behkhara," he responded. "You have tasted the blood. you must drink now, whether we are here or in the jungle."

"I can find other blood," I replied. "It does not have to be yours. I do not want you to die. We must leave, we must leave. I will find other blood. Any other blood but yours."

Then he put his hands on either side of my face, resting his fingers on the scars the Pyong Myar had made the night he took me from my family, tracing them lightly. Looking deep into my eyes, he asked, "Then who will speak for the people?"

For that, I had no answer.

"Silly Behkhara," he whispered. Then he cuddled against me, and lying in my arms fell asleep. I could not.

I noticed the Pyong Myar watching me and wondered if he knew what I was thinking. He took me aside to talke to me.

"The next time you speak the language of blood will be terribly important," he said, his face stern, his purple eyes glowing with that horrible fire. "If all goes well, you will speak of the enemy and his plans-where the army gathers, when it will attack. This is what you were born for, Behkhara. You will tell the city what it must know in order for it to survive."

I nodded mutely. I did not tell him of the hollow horror growing inside of my heart. I could not make the words come past my thick, rebellious tongue.

The night before my third speaking, a year since I had first tasted Ryou's blood, a sunrise and a sunset before I would be called upon to drink until he died, I said to him, "We are leaving the city."

The silent horror in her eyes matched what was growing in my heart, but its roots were different. He could not possibly imagine this terrible, horrifying act of betrayal. "What will the people do without us?" he asked, voice trembling.

"I don't care," I replied. My voice was savage and forceful. "I don't care about the people any more. I care about you. If we leave, you will not die. If we stay, you will. That is all that is important."

He looked down. He did not answer. I knew he was ashamed for me, but I also knew that he would come with me if I insisted.

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I insisted. Late that night, we left the temple, slipping out through the secret ways that Atemu had taught me long ago, the first and only time that I had ventured into the city after the night of my calling. I feared that we would be spotted. My plan was to run. Once I had been called the fastest boy in the city. I did not know how fast I was compared to the guards, but I counted on love and fear to put wings on my heels. I knew that Ryou could not keep up. But if I escaped myself, at least he would live. I did not want to lose him, but better to lose him yet know he still lived safely than to lose him to the demands of the language of blood.

Or so I thought at the time.

No one stopped us.

We traveled far, far from the city, deep into the jungle, and two nights later, we found the enemy.

It might seem like the oddest of chances. It was not chance. There are no coincidences. I know now that the heroes had led me there, to see what I needed to see.

We came upon the army whena we climbed a hill and saw, in the valley far below us, row upon row upon row of tents, stretching as far as the nearly full moon could show us. These men were coming to take the city. If they were successful, they would rape the women, kill the children, loot the Red Temple.

There were no words to be said. Language was not needed. Ryou took my hand in his and turned me around. Silently, carefully, we made our way back to the city.

The Pyong Myar stood at the temple door when we arrived, the not-quite-secret door throught which we had fled, through which we returned. He did not speak, only nodded in silent acknowledgement of what we had done and were about to do, his brilliant eyes now dim and sorrowful.

The next night, I climbed the temple stairs to the low-walled room where Ryou lay waiting on the cold stone table. I swallowed the rest of his life, and as he lay dying, I writhed on the floor in agony and bliss and spoke again the language of blood. All of the secrets of the past, all of the wisdom of the people, all of the strength of the dead heroes flowed from my tongue. In the language of blood, I told not only the location of the enemy, which I knew well, but their numbers and their plans and their secret weaknesses.

The city was saved, of course, but Ryou was lost.

I have had many, many Sources since then.

I am more weary than I can tell you.

I am glad that you are here.

So. Now you know what it is all about, know far more than I did the day I came to Sehto.

Are you ready? Place yourself here, please.

Turn your head just so.

This will only take a moment.


End file.
